Um.

Regular readers (seeing as how I'm pretty sure I know all of you, and rather well. Hi Mom!) know that "Hey, Katia broke a glass!" is not news. However, the fact that I introduced stressors into the life of the glass, eventually leading it down a dark spiral of fear, disappointment, depression, and eventually suicide, is news. I made the glass break itself. I Hannibal Lectored it.



Apparently, taking a glass still hot from the dishwasher, then pouring fridge-cold water into it will lead to hi-jinks and a kitchen floor covered in water. DBF just shook his head and made fun of me the rest of the night.

Must dash

Mum and Dad were going to name Mason 'Dash'. He's probably faster than me, but his refusal to ever move at a rate greater than a goatee'd, argyle-clad sloth should entitle me to the title, I think. My running is still in baby-stages, as I'm trying to get very comfortable with the first step of the running program before I move on to the next. 60-90 is generally do-able, but I have to get up the guts to expand to 90-120. Six repeats instead of eight. It'll mess up my usual counting system of 'South, West, North, East, South, West, North, East' around McKinley Park. Ah well. Change is good, right?

Addendum: I did it. It turns out that 90 seconds run, 120 seconds walk is quite a it harder than 60-90. But I lived, and the nice, elderly gent who is always going counterclockwise while I go clockwise was there, so we said good morning about three times.

Challah, attempt #3 postscript

It was beautiful. Turns out, I need to watch this oven every second, or it will attempt . . . shenanigans.

The extra oil, egg glaze, and time to rise made a lovely loaf. I'm pleased to have found my ideal.

Now I need to figure a better way to burn the portion for the blessing than holding a lighter to it for ten minutes. Or stinking up the apartment by burning it to a cinder in the oven. Not to mention the waste of energy.

MacGuyver, my Man

So while I've been puttering about the internet, looking for vegetarian alternatives to chicken salad &c., my DBF has been busy unpacking books, exchanging lamps from one room to another, and fixing doors.

Yes. Fixing doors. The doors. . . dare I say it? *Close* now. The cat will be very confused when he realizes that a closed door will no longer open to the pressure exerted by his delicate gray paws.

Anyway, this repair took metallurgical prowess, a scary appreciation of pliers, and actually scraping wood out of the doorframe. Yes, the apartment fix-it-up-chappies installed doors that not only didn't have working springs, but *couldn't possibly interact with the hole in the door frame, by as much as a few centimeters!*

And now it's better, and I'm smug.

Challah, attempt #3

The first challah was measly, paltry, and tough. This is probably due to not letting the completed braid rise even *close* to enough. I also forgot the egg glaze, so it was insufficiently shiny.

The second challah was a big, brassy beauty, easily 2.5 times the size of the first- some of the braid was obscured by its swollen magnificence. The egg glaze shone golden-brown like bodybuilders on a Southern Californian beach from some '80's movie/TV show. And I burnt it. Yep. Aaron first noted the smell, and by the time I ran to retrieve it, it had definitely over-browned. Served with butter and honey (L'shanah tova!), it seemed to pass muster among a group of gamers, anyway.

Third time may well be a charm. Upped the oil content slightly (am hoping for a slightly moister crumb), and am letting it rise now. Here's hoping.